


Time Goes By

by ComposingJohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, British Military, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposingJohnlock/pseuds/ComposingJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is redeployed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock, I'm being redeployed. JW

How is that possible? And why? -SH

The letter says because they need someone with my expertise. JW

When do you have to go? -SH

I report a week from today. JW

John... I'm sure, if we contact Mycroft, he could do something. -SH

I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe. Could you come home? JW

I'll be there as soon as I can. -SH

 

Fifteen minutes later, the front door was unlocked and a very unhappy consulting detective entered 221B. He moved haughtily into the living room, removing his scarf. "Where are you, John?"

"Kitchen," John called. He was making tea to calm his nerves, though his hands were shaking. The dreadful letter lay opened on the table.  
Sherlock went to the kitchen, his eyes immediaty zeroing in on the letter. He snatched it up, examining it carefully. His brain helpfully suggested reading it backwards or upside-down, in Italian or possibly Cantonese. But the letter was direct and legitimate, obviously from the military. He set the paper down, looking forlornly at his flatmate. "I don't want you to go. You can't."

"And you think I want to go?" John asked. "Because I don't. Going back is the last thing I want to do. But it's an order." He paused, pulling two mugs from the cupboard. "Tea?" he said, and poured Sherlock some without waiting for an answer. The consulting detective watched him, for the first time not having words to say. "We can figure something out. I'm not going to let you just go back," he said determinedly.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John cried suddenly, slamming the kettle back on the stove. Sherlock didn't jump, but he blinked. John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Please, don't make this any harder than it already is. None of your schemes."

There was a pause.

"If that's what you want," Sherlock murmured, trying hard not to sound like a beaten dog. "We only have a week, then." How could one possibly make a single week fill the void that would remain when John left?

John nodded. "Just a week," he murmured. He turned and handed Sherlock his mug of tea. "And then I'll be gone for a year. Only a year. It's really not so long, is it? Just twelve months."  
Sherlock set the mug down, watching steam rise and curl up from its amber depths. 

"Just twelve months," he echoed. "Twelve months on my own. Two days already feels like a month when you're not around." He traced the top of the mug with a pale finger.

"You'll be fine, I'm sure," John said, though his throat was tight with sorrow. "You'll have Lestrade, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson."  
They were nothing. Friends, okay, acquaintances, sure. But nothing compared to John's companionship.  
"And you'll have your work to keep you busy. I'll write whenever I can, and I'll be back before you know it," John added.

 

"And what about you? Won't you be in danger, or at least miserable? What if you don't come back?"

John tensed. He'd thought of the possibility, of course. A soldier would bring Sherlock a letter, informing him of John's passing, and John would be brought home in a wooden box. But he wouldn't let that happen. "I'll come back," he said calmly, sipping at his tea.

Sherlock looked up at him with more emotion than he'd probably ever expressed in his life. "Promise me, John. You'll come back safely." John's heart jumped, then clenched, and he felt breathless. 

"I promise, Sherlock. I'll come back to you."


	2. Time Goes By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock copes.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, silently. He stared at the table, counting up the numerous divots and stains, trying to deduce the cause of each one. 

They had one week left. 7 days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. And of those minutes, Sherlock didn't want to waste any of them.

"I know what you're thinking," John said. "You don't want to waste the next week. Neither do I. What should we do?"

Sherlock looked back up. "Anything. No cases, no Moriarty, no Mycroft being irritating. We'll just... enjoy each other's company."

John smiled, though it seemed to be a sad expression. "Yes," he said. "I think that's for the best."  
"Alright then." Sherlock stood, the force of it causing the tea to ripple in his cup. "We should start now." He looked back at his flatmate. "What would you like to do?"  
John blinked, stunned. "I'm not...sure..." he said. "My usual pastime is solving cases with you, Sherlock."

That just wouldn't do. Cases were tedious, certainly something he would do after this week was over. But not until then. "Isn't there ... other things you do? Don't you have dates with your girlfriends? What do you do then?"

John cleared his throat. Sherlock was suggesting they do the same things he did with his girlfriends? Well, then. "Dinner, sometimes, or we might go to the cinema. Or both. If I'm lucky enough, we end the night with a shag." He was joking, of course.  
Sherlock blinked, trying to glean information. Well, he did. He caught John attempting a joke toward the end and he responded with a raised eyebrow. Color rose to John's cheeks when Sherlock brushed off his joke.

"Right." Sherlock didn't eat and he hated the cinema. (He accurately guessed the ending within the first ten minutes anyway.) All that was left was the third, obviously not serious, option. Then he looked at John. "What about experiments?" He suggested brightly. John chuckled. 

"That's always been your thing, Sherlock, but as long as I'm spending my time with you, I really don't care what we get up to."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent. Experiments it is. I have one I've been thinking of, if you don't mind. The steam explosives? Wait, no. We could always try the nerve ending tests, I can never find another willing subject for those." He eyed John's shoulder rather hungrily.

John just smiled. "Whatever you want, Sherlock," he said. He would give anything for Sherlock to have a few last moments of happiness, before he left.

"Excellent!" he repeated. "Okay, take that silly jumper off for this." He went back to the couch, patting a spot on the cushion next to him.  
John rolled his eyes but walked over anyway, sat beside Sherlock, and peeled off his jumper. He wore a plain shirt underneath.

"Tell me if something hurts or I accidentally paralyze you. If you can't talk, then punch me. If you can't move or talk, then I'll call the hospital." He cracked his knuckles and sat next to the doctor, mentally pinpointing a few of the nerves on his neck and shoulder. He jabbed them using four fingers, then paused for the reaction. John yelped.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" he growled, but he wasn't really angry. He knew his flatmate would enjoy this. It would calm him.  
Sherlock let the pressure fade before trying another set equally as hard, this time on the opposite side of John. He smiled a little in anticipation. "And there?"

John squirmed. "Not particularly comfortable, either," he grumbled.

"Hm. Now, here." He pushed firmly, but not forcefully, just behind John's ear where the jaw could be felt. John relaxed at that touch. It was actually rather pleasant. 

"Mmm, that's not so bad."  
Sherlock quickly shifted his arms. "Alright," he said, a little surprised. That was good. He rubbed two pressure points along John's back.

John very nearly moaned, but managed to stop himself before the sound escaped. "Yeah, that's not bad, either."

Sherlock noted John's reflexive swallow before putting two fingers up to his throat. "Do you feel anything other than my fingers?" He asked, expecting a 'No'. He shouldn't. He was subtly taking John's pulse. Just because he liked to know.

"No," John murmured, his eyes closed.

"Good." Sherlock then took his whole hand and moved it high up to the back of John's neck, then pinched hard. John yelped again suddenly, the good feelings gone. "Ouch! Sherlock!"

The detective had reconsidered his next move five whole times, then finally confirmed it. He cupped his hand around John's neck, pushing John's head forward. Sherlock met the doctor with his lips. John, for just a split second, was stunned. Completely stunned. 

He eventually found himself returning the kiss, his lips moving slowly against Sherlock's.

Sherlock was surprised that John didn't break away, but that was okay. It was good, actually. He continued to kiss John until he felt like he couldn't breathe and drew back, gazing back at John with his quicksilver eyes. He then put two fingers to his neck to check John's pulse again. Interesting.  
John frowned at that. "No, Sherlock, please tell me that wasn't just part of your experiment."

"It wasn't meant to be. But the results were worth it," he whispered. "Should I try again? Without an ulterior motive?"

The grin on John's face told him exactly what he needed to know.

"Yes," John said. "You most certainly should."

 

                 --

 

For the first few months, John's letters were frequent. He did everything he could to reassure Sherlock--the flatmate, colleague, best friend, and love he'd left behind in London. He was always sure to tell him he missed him, and that he would be home soon, though Sherlock was surely counting the days. Soon, the letters slowed. Fighting grew more intense, battles closer together, and rests farther between. The time to write became a luxury.

Sherlock held onto John's letters like they were a lifeline. It was painfully obvious.  
Even Lestrade noticed he was different. Subdued, quieter... somehow. His performance on cases weren't too affected, but it seemed odd that Sherlock returned home as quickly as possible to check the mail each day. When he was without a case, he slowly counted the days, and the hours, and the minutes that John wasn't there. He missed him desperately. It was probably the only thing he'd ever properly missed.

Though there came a time, roughly halfway through the dreaded year, that John's letters stopped entirely. It was no longer safe to write, or to send out mail. He could only hope that Sherlock would understand and wouldn't panic.

That didn't happen. Sherlock was, to put it simply, devastated. Though nothing had arrived saying that John was dead, there were no more letters from him either. His imagination (pushed back into the corner of his mind as it was) gave him memories of John. His dreams, few as they were, consisted of his flatmate dying in a large explosion or bleeding out slowly on a battlefield. He'd awake in a cold sweat, alone, only to wander into the living room and reread all of John's blog posts. He wished he could just send a damn text and have John be home in a half hour like normal. But normal felt so far away.

 

                                             ---

 

  Eleven months, two weeks, and three days into John's service, another letter finally came for Sherlock. But this one wasn't from John. Nor was it, thank God, a letter announcing John's death. But John was at St. Bart's, lying wounded in a bed of crisp white sheets, unconscious and unresponsive. Sherlock dropped everything. 

And by everything, it was all his mail and a cup of tea. He did not care whatsoever that he was dressed in just his pyjamas and a robe. He hopped into a cab and got to St. Bart's. The mention of the name "Holmes" got him past the security and he slipped into an elevator with John's room number burned into his mind.

The hospital was blindingly white. Clean. Sterile. Smelling of peroxide and latex gloves. Sherlock moved through the halls, his senses on overdrive. He found the room ten minutes later.

His heart sank when he saw his John in the bed. John, looking so lifeless. So un-John. It wasn't right. He moved up close to his friend, gripping his hand tightly in his own.

John's fingers twitched reflexively around Sherlock's. It was a good sign, as up to this point, John hadn't moved at all.

Sherlock exhaled. Movement was good. He brushed John's face softly. "What have they done to you," he whispered, half angrily and half miserably. "John..."  
John's chart indicated exactly what they'd done. Several gunshot wounds, bullets in his side and shoulder. He had also been thrown back by an explosion, and was quite possibly suffering from head trauma. 

He hadn't moved since. The consulting detective dragged a chair to John's bedside, leaning completely forward with his head cradled by John's limp arm. He remained like this for exactly four hours, twenty-two minutes and five seconds. John's vital signs bleeped constantly and he memorized the pattern in case there was any change.  
At some point during the night, Sherlock forced himself to get up to drink water, only because his throat was starting to distract his mind. 

Two days passed. Sherlock eyed the nurses darkly when they tried to adjust one of John's several tubes and scowled at the doctors when they told him it would be better to go home for a day or two. Lestrade visited. And so did Mycroft, though only for a short while. Molly stayed in the room with Sherlock when she had lunch breaks.   
And Harry stopped by as well, but Sherlock's silence and the fact that, no, John wasn't awake yet caused her to leave quickly too.

By the third day, Sherlock returned to Baker street for new clothes and a brief shower, only because he knew John would've asked for it anyway.   
On the fourth, there was a case that needed his help to be solved. It was a triple murder. Lestrade had tried to talk Sherlock into leaving John to inspect the crime scene. He only went because Molly promised to stay and Lestrade offered nicotine patches. 

 

Sherlock solved it on the ninth day and went back to John's hospital room. No one bothered to visit anymore. He leaned over John's bed, his fingers softly brushing the lines of John's still, sleeping face.

On the tenth day, Sherlock gave in to the nurses. He'd previously ignored attempts from anyone who tried to get him to eat. But they had threatened to use feeding tubes on him if he didn't, so he reluctantly ate three bites of a cold cheese sandwich and then went back to John.

On the eleventh day, Sherlock lay against the edge of John's bed beside John. He had carefully arranged himself so that he didn't disturb the wires or tubes. His hand again was tight in John's when he felt another, very weak squeeze from John's hand. Sherlock sat straight up and in doing so pulled John's IV right out.

Sherlock waited six more impatient hours. John's hand moved four more times and his foot once. It wasn't until the twelfth day, at three in the morning, that any movement on John's face occurred.   
It was his eyelids. The detective was sitting beside his old flatmate again, staring intently at his face like he had been for all those minutes. His left eyelid twitched. At fifteen minutes, both of them did.

Sherlock counted the excruciating seconds until, finally, John's eyes fluttered open. 

Sherlock managed to exhale when the fingers laced around his tightened. "Where..?" John asked, but his voice was slurred and slow. Sherlock smiled.

"You're home a little early," Sherlock said. John's eyes turned to him though they seemed to be having some trouble focusing. "You're at St. Bart's. You were unresponsive for almost two weeks, we thought..." he trailed off, not really wanting to discuss exactly what they had thought had happened.

John's eyebrows furrowed. He didn't speak, he just stared at Sherlock. The detective realized suddenly that the head trauma may have more permanent effects.

"Do you remember your name?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

John opened his mouth. A single, heavy syllable came from it. "John," Followed with "... Watson." 

Sherlock nodded encouragingly. "Now, do you remember who I am, John?"

John paused. It lasted for three seconds. Four. Five.  The very fact that John even had to pause caused a sudden sick feeling in his stomach. John still didn't answer. Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand and John didn't stop him.

"I'm sorry. I ... I assumed you would... I'll give you time to recover privately, then." He stood, feeling the muscles in his back protest.   
He began to open the glass doors of the hospital room when John spoke. 

"Sherlock..."

The word tumbled from John's mouth, hitting Sherlock full force like a fifteen-foot wave. The hand on the door froze. The detective turned to look at John, who gave him a weak smile.

"I missed you."


End file.
